You should have read the clues:
the loss of faith,
the meandering series
of false starts and stillborn poems,
your weak attempt to revive them.
And yet you fumble on
your back bent under the weight of your thoughts:
that lumbering swirl of booze and exhaustion.
And when you do arrive,
you arrive as always:
short on time and money.
You try to explain.
But the limp trajectory of your words
only lend testimony to a fading libido:
that which found its flow and flows away.
Your fantasies feel forced,
fewer,
and further in between.
So you turn to acts of will
in the face of declining expectations:
you rage against the machine,
and dying light
(both being the same),
by force fucking yourself in the shower,
not out of love or lust,
but a rigid demand for mere desire.
You cum but nothing comes of it
-not even release.
And release from what?
Your passions all but gone,
you could turn to the cold and calculating comfort
of logic or science;
but the premises take you nowhere,
and the predicates,
the multiple possibilities of what a thing could be,
seem more than you can bare.
But despite the mess she leaves us in,
may we wish her well.
May she go where inspiration goes.
May she roam the abandon houses
and dusty rooms
among the residual dead
and know the faint but sour scent
of rotting flesh.
And may everything in the universe
move in all directions
while Time stands still.
May lovers love,
and poets and philosophers
take the place of prophets.
May they stand before the Beast
and raise their swords with serious thought,
not platitudes or slogans,
and the graves of the fallen
be marked by flopsy hipsters
with stolen flowers.
May light continue its eternal aversion to darkness,
and the cloudy night
contain the urban glow,
press it into every corner.
May she dwell in tall buildings in dark rooms
where men in clean white shirts ,
and the dim glow of computer screens,
script our futures.
May she stand on the roofs
and look out
where streetlamps map the rolling topology
of the dark suburban hills.
But most of all,
may this parting poem be our parting consolation.
May it renew our faith.
May our idle tongues strike like pile drivers,
the fierce exchange of impact and echo,
and find her where she dwells.